


If you only have one match (make an explosion)

by earnmysong



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Post-IM3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4016098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/pseuds/earnmysong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Dwelling on the uncertainty for too long is bound to have very real, very hazardous, very <i>incendiary</i> consequences.</i> // Pepper takes a page out of Tony’s <i>how to handle life</i> manual [Post-IM3]</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you only have one match (make an explosion)

**Author's Note:**

> This little nugget has been languishing forever in the hope that it would become a saga of some sort. Which, incidentally, it never did. However, I still enjoy it quite a lot, so it’s seeing the light of the interwebs. A multitude of compliments to catteo for betaing like a queen! 
> 
> Disclaimer: _Iron Man_ , and all related content, doesn’t belong to me.

\----

It’s not that Pepper’s in denial. 

(Coming out of a situation that would normally result in, at best, shattered bones and, at worst, an ended life, unscathed would take anyone time to process. In her case, there’s also an added bonus – reducing a fiery psychopath to an explosively miniscule shadow of his former self. Using the power with which he’d intended to destroy everything she knows, in a truly spectacular fashion, to do it hasn’t made it any easier to deal with. Even if it should have. To put it mildly: this is sticking with her for a while.) 

She’s not avoiding her life; she’s simply started to segment it into manageable slices. Her ‘big picture’ is the fuzziest it’s ever been, and dwelling on the uncertainty for too long is bound to have very real, very hazardous, very _incendiary_ consequences.

At the moment, her brain is working its way through yet another _burn, baby, burn; tea is supposed to be calming, right?; did I really kill –; burn, baby, burn_ cycle. Zeroing in on the only part of this loop that requires action and hanging on to the redirection gratefully, she flings cabinet doors wide, pulls drawers out as far as they’ll go, and stands on a chair to investigate the top of the refrigerator, all in the name of finding a teabag.

“Need some help in here, Firework?” When Tony comes to a stop next to her, she notices that he’s in a t-shirt and jeans. The fact that he’s forgone the protection a layer of metal, or any of the million other gadgets in his arsenal, would offer him tells her that her racket hadn’t hinted at imminent implosion.

(A week has shed some light on the finer points of Pepper’s combustion continuum.

Baseline is as close to business as usual as she can get – the sparks running through her system remain a constant, if invisible, blur under her skin. ‘Code Red’ comes into play during, and only during, events that have Tony blanking on his more intelligent vocabulary, leaving every third word ‘dicey’. These usually stem from her newly-acquired addition morphing into a feisty little bastard faster than she can get a lid on whatever has her hyped, leaving Stark Tower within an inch of crumbling around their ears. Only extremes exist for her, despite Tony’s assurances that the downtime between flares lasts much longer than the five minutes it always seems like.)

His question registers on the third try, a hand on her cheek enough contact to shatter her brief foray into reflection.

“Didn’t we buy tea the last time we were here? I can’t find any.” 

He shakes his head, offers her a hand as she steps down, her pursuit having no further purpose in light of this information. “If you’ll permit me, a list you may find relevant.” For what follows, he holds up a finger as he brings up each point. “One: We decided on those ready-made frappuccino/cappuccino things – portable, lazy-man’s way out and all that. Two: I drank all of them prior to Loki making the world and, incidentally, sections of this very building, explode. Three: They’re a dairy-based product and, as such, would be decidedly undrinkable a year out, should they still exist. Which they do not.” Taking a doughnut from the bag on the counter, he bites into a cloud of powder. “You busy?”

His expression prompts her to circle the question back to him. “Are _you_?” 

“Always. It’s basically a gigantic brainstorm in here,” he informs her, tapping the side of his head with a finger.

“Being in close proximity to you for extended periods of time has ruined me, you know that?” He starts to protest, maybe even apologize, but she stops him with, “It appears, Mr. Stark,” she reaches out to grab something, hides it in the pocket of the MIT hoodie she’s wearing – technically, it belongs to him; she bought it at the sole alumni weekend he’d permitted her to drag him to, then covertly added it to her wardrobe a week later – out of his line of sight, “that I have a brilliant idea of my own. It’s going to require some experimentation.” She tilts her head to the side, in the direction of the stairs that lead to the lower levels. (Elevators have been put on hold until the chances that she’ll fry wiring and plummet multiple floors are zero for zero.) “Want to come watch?”

\----

Tony pushes through the door to the stairwell, holding it open and letting Pepper pass in front of him. “Believe it or not, I don’t think I’ve ever actually been down here. It’s nice.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a parking garage, Tony. They’re all the same.” Boring and non-descript, she doesn’t add out loud. It isn’t exactly a place where she wants to spend hours of her weekend, but it’s perfect for what she needs to accomplish. (Or try to, anyway.)

“I know what it is,” he laughs. “I’m not blind. It’s _mine_ , though, and there’s no graffiti, all visible damage from previous debacles has clearly been repaired, and there are no strange pieces of gum anywhere in sight. I’m allowed to sing its praises if I so desire.” He bounces impatiently on his toes twice. “Let’s do this. Not that I know what _this_ is, but it’s you, so.” He shrugs. “I’m in.”

She leans in to kiss his cheek, simultaneously extracting the item she’d brought with her and handing it over to him.

“Marshmallows?” he wonders, looking down at the plastic bag, confused, before a grin breaks through and anticipation overtakes everything else. “I see where you’re going and, I’d just like to say, I’m delighted you’re letting me be here to witness it.” He shakes one into his palm and lifts it so it’s a couple inches away from her nose. “So. Incinerating them with blistering breath? Toasting them to s’more perfection with lightning from your fingertips? What’re we thinking here?” His features scrunch slightly in thought. “Also, I should probably,” he flips over the hand that’s not occupied, curls his fingers into a fist, gestures up and outward, “have a little insurance.” An arm plate that belongs to Mark 17, the armor that he’s always kept away from home, on the opposite coast in fact, flies past her head and latches on to the outstretched limb waiting for it. “Not that I don’t trust you.” 

(Her apprehension about the functionality of the machinery, given both its long period of disuse as well as its exclusion from the regular suit rotation, stays internal. _All you need is positivity._ Sure, she borrowed this wisdom from decades-old British pop, but it’s still wise and worth remembering.)

Tony’s marshmallow switches to the protected extremity as she releases a centering breath, no flame included. (An encouraging sign in and of itself.) Reaching out, she touches a finger (start with minimal power, see where that leads) to the spongy surface, only to have nothing happen. She tries all five fingers next, getting a tiny arc of orange heat for the effort. 

“I melted the toaster into a puddle yesterday. Now? Nothing.” She picks up her hand and slams it down again as she talks. The sugary blob, intact one second, explodes the next. Tony splutters into the smoke hitting him in the face amidst her gasps of _sorry, sorry, crap_ and waving between them in an attempt at dispersal.

“I’m fine,” he croaks, pounding his chest. He works to collect himself, taking longer than he normally would because he has to factor in the way she’s glaring at him. “See, a little smoke never hurt anybody.” 

Apparently, this is true, at least this time, given that he delivers the last portion at a normal volume and doesn’t look like he’s fighting to get the words out. “No fire extinguisher necessary either,” he comments brightly. 

Adhering to his philosophy that a lack of destruction automatically equals a favorable outcome has never been her style; his ridiculously enthused thumbs-up puts considerable weight into persuading her, although she’d never let on how effective it actually is.


End file.
